by A. S. Etaski
“Sirana?” Mourn asked.
Determinedly, I rolled forward onto my palms. “My bladder is full.”
He nodded. “Good sign. Do you need help?”
Fuck, no!
My arms quivered, threatening to collapse and send my face to the dirt instead of helping me to stand up. I went to my elbows, instead, hissing curses in Davrin. My spiders moved with me, and the ruby swung and brushed the grass.
Goddess damnit, why am I so weak?!
“Maybe,” I grumbled.
Without gloat or chortle, Mourn stepped up to gently take one arm beneath my pit. “Knees first. Then we can try standing.”
Gavin kept his mouth closed as I eventually struggled to my feet. My legs, which hadn’t been used for an entire day, shot through with needles and aches and cried to collapse. The mercenary’s hands slipped beneath my pits before that point, and he held me up with such little effort that my face heated in annoyed humiliation. Meanwhile, my spiders inspected his fingers near my sore tits but didn’t bite.
“Do not touch the ruby,” I warned.
“We agreed not to steal from each other, remember, Baenar?”
Right. Damned Dragonblood.
I glanced to each side. “Where’s the best place?”
“This way.”
He steered me to the brush on the West side of the hill, where rainfall would wash any middens down and away from both the underground spring and the cave entrance, and it was unlikely we’d walk here while milling about.
“Can you set me against a tree?” I asked in Davrin.
“Your legs may not hold you. It would be faster and cleaner if I drape your cloak over one arm and squat with you.”
I made a face he couldn’t see. “Have some debauched desire to watch? Or smell it?”
“No.” He sounded insulted and uncomfortable. “I have experience aiding squadmates unable to care for themselves.”
Squadmate. He’d called Gaelan this.
“You don’t look like a healer,” I grumbled, tugging at the ties of one hip.
“I am practical. Your death mage avoids touch, and likely for good reason. I will do this if you allow.” He leaned to one side. “Do you need help pushing down your leathers?”
“No. I can do this much.”
Mourn waited, patiently supporting me as I got this done, then draped my cloak out of the way as promised. On a count, we squatted low to the ground, and I tried to relax enough to begin.
At first, nothing.
Damnit.
I thought I’d needed to go. Since when did I get performance fright?
“Take your time,” he rumbled. “I am in no hurry.”
I exhaled slowly, trying with deliberation to relax. Then, stupidly, and out of nowhere, I asked, “What if Brom recovers enough to come after me, tracks me here, and you are in the way?”
Mourn was quiet for a moment. Perhaps he was surprised. “Are you warning me?”
I thought about it. “Yes. I awoke something… old. And dangerous. From the Red Desert.”
He was silent.
“I was ignorant, given no warning.” I swallowed, too aware of the cool, night air on my bare slit. “I am not sure how I would escape him again without Soul Drinker.”
The large male shifted his large, bare feet and his stance, adjusting his hold on me. Somehow, it was comfortable as we waited for my bladder to cooperate.
“I have seen the sorcerer as a possible threat for long before you surfaced but know better than to cull without necessity and leave a power void. I have taken precautions to hide this place, but I will keep guard all the same. If he becomes a threat in truth while you recover, I will respond accordingly to defend my den.”
If this conflict were anything like his practices defending that circle against the horde of warped cannibals, perhaps the sorcerer could be rebuffed from me and the dagger. But could the Deathless be killed by a Dragon’s son?
“You must rest and believe,” he continued, “that your first line of defense is not the relic. It is the Deathwalker and me. Leave the dagger as a last resort, lest the demon succeed in purging your child so it may have you to itself.”
My surge of fear in hearing that plain truth brought the strong urge to piss.
I didn’t fight it. I let it come.
Finally.
CHAPTER 8
Mourn’s cache was dry, dark, and stocked in a way that required planning not too long ago. The blankets were present, whole, and only a little dusty; there were no creatures eating holes in them. Several layers of moisture-resistant leather contained separated pouches of dried, edible plants, mushrooms, and seeds, and there were a couple metal containers safely stored against corrosion, which could be used for heating spring water or cooking over a fire.
Removing only my dirty boots and cloak, I’d used the latter to cover my belt retrieved from Gavin’s mount, and rolled up within three blankets in the dark cave. My spiders were free to explore as they would while I plummeted into darkness without dreams of any kind.
I’d woken shortly before sunrise to eat and pass waste again with Mourn’s silent assistance. Gavin had been awake and well, though we exchanged no greeting as my stomach rumbled in its demand, and I’d climbed straight into the nest.
Before returning sleep, I’d sat inside chewing busily through many of the preserves as the daylight grew stronger. Mourn had motioned his hand in silent invitation before he left, and I’d accepted it at face value.
*Take what you need.*
I’d recognized the Davrin silent tongue, though like his speech, the signs held unfamiliar accents.
After repeating this cycle twice more, I managed my first squat without the half-blood’s help late the next night. I could hold on to a branch at the right level with both hands and keep myself upright. Breathing a sigh of relief, my sweating brow resting on my bicep, I closed my eyes.
I have never slept so much in a century.
Maybe that only showed how draining the Surface was the longer one stayed on it. Or that this was merely the first sign of how difficult being pregnant on the Surface would inevitably become for me.
Shit. Other matas aren’t this weak, are they? I never paid attention…
I recalled yet again that I had no safe way to end it. I didn’t know what methods I could use in this foreign land which would not leave me worse off than this. Cris-ri-phon would have wanted me dependent on him the same way I was dependent on Mourn to recover from the warp rot, but for much longer.
Rausery was right. To catch something in your womb as a Red Sister is a two-year sentence of not being one.
This was true whether I was kept by a Priestess, a Sorcerer-General, the Ma’ab, or a Dragon’s son.
Ohh, I am in trouble.
Sullenly, I slinked into the cave for another dry meal and large swigs of spring water before settling down for the fifth time. Before losing consciousness, however, I turned over a few quiet thoughts on my present. I studied the cave, considered that there were enough supplies here for greater numbers than one.
I did not want to believe this mercenary had anticipated needing to bring me and Gavin here; that was too unnerving and paranoid to cling to. Mourn stated he had been following Kurn and Castis, and I’d stumbled in his way, travelling the same direction as them.
I wanted to believe this, as badly as this had gone for me. The simpler answer for this cache was then the half-blood was neither a loner nor recluse but traveled through here on other missions with enough regularity to mark its worth.
“I have often said I can only get close to a horse that is dead….”
“Often said to whom?”
He’d shrugged, declining to answer.
Who hires you, merc? How do you gain your “contracts” and, presumably, your reward?
Mourn also knew about “the Druid.” Somehow, he knew Tamuril had been hurt by Jaunda. Did the Pale Elf know him by name, or di
d he watch her, too? Who on the Surface knew of this escaped Davrin son? Worked with him? Did it have anything to do with “squadmates” and his willingness to loan his own efforts to help one recover when weak or injured?
I kept my eyes on the blankets lest he read my face from across the cave and sense how I studied him. He called the Matron’s name for him a “slave” name… A dead one.
How did she get her claws on him in the first place? I’d heard of one Black Dragon down below but never recognized a sign of him until now. If there were others, it would be as concerning as knowing there was another Davrin city besides Sivaraus.
Had a real, lurking mystery quickened a son for one of us half a millennium ago? One possibly greater in magic than any Sathoet given the freedom from his Priestess.
“You are kept ignorant, that is clear.”
I turned over as it grew light once again and, outside, Mourn dropped the weighted hide to block the Sun.
Ahhh, thank you…
I slipped gently into Reverie and sensed when I shifted toward a strange dreaming. I was too numb to fear or fight but resolved that I would not take further punches unaware. I could expect the fist and try to dodge.
Come what may.
“This way,” Toushek whispered, beckoning up the sheer, narrow split in the red rock.
The Davrin trader carried a shield of gold on his left arm which would have been blinding in the Sun. I stopped and peered straight up at the stars, recognizing the cluster which looked like a scorpion’s tail.
He turned around and frowned at me. “We do not have much time.”
“Why do you carry that here?” I asked, pointing at the shield. “Where did you trade for it, merchant?”
The bua narrowed dark red eyes. “It is yours, Godblood, if you come. If you find something for me, I might trade.”
“Find what?”
Toushek beckoned again, taking steps backward. He refused to say more until I followed him. I went along because I recognized this narrow fissure which led to the prison where the golden-eyed bua was kept beyond iron bars.
Maybe I would see him again. Maybe I can help the poor, pretty lad, as I promised.
Far in we went but no barred window materialized near the rock floor. Only an empty, gaping door lay ahead, and the dead end beyond it.
“He is gone,” said Toushek without pity.
“Already?”
“You are too late. The Everlasting Pit has him. But he may have left something behind which is important.”
I swallowed. “Oh?”
“Yes. Something for which the Desert Guard may Bargain with us regardless of the circumstances, General. You will need much more than you have to prevent the Realms from coming apart.”
The Desert Guard… The Realms?
“What of the Desert Queendom?” I asked.
The merchant shook his head, long, white hair waving. “Not within your power to save, Godblood. That survival is on the Sisters, and it does not look likely despite your many gifts. Focus on your own men and women. After this long, after this many decades beyond which you should have known nothing and had no say, let the Dark Elves face the fate which their best Seers have foretold.”
No!
Imagining the Red Desert without the Davrin Elves terrified me, yet I was struck by how Toushek spoke as if he wasn’t one of them despite his appearance. I remembered him showing up at odd times, always appealing in what he offered in knowledge or objects. I’d never questioned it before, but now I was here.
How many centuries had this creature been watching me, among so many others? I slowed, stopping outside the open, black door, staring suspiciously at him. “What lies within, informer? Or is it betrayer now? Are you a face-shifter?”
The Davrin bua smiled with amusement. “If I am, you are quite comfortable with those, General. Or have you forgotten Nalara already? Oh!” He lifted a finger as if catching his own error. “Forgive me. We call it Manalar now, yes?”
My chest seized in panic. It… it cannot be.
I had not thought of the blonde Druid in centuries. The Naulor companion had been a dalliance, a distraction from missing my Qu’eesan, my true desire, and long before the births of my children with Innathi.
“What do you imply?” I rumbled. “Who are you?”
Toushek waved his hand in smooth dismissal toward the cave. “Enter, General. Let your men carry the torches. Keep your hands free.”
My…men?
A gradual, ethereal rise of flickering flames threw dancing shadows upon the red wall. Behind me were eleven of my most trusted men, all Human, all blind and deaf to Toushek’s presence except for one at the back, my current Court Deathwalker. Oskar said nothing but occasionally focused his dark eyes on the smiling Davrin. He did not react to the mention of Nalara.
Perhaps he can see it but not hear the words.
“General?” the closest man asked, noting my hesitation. “Where are we? How did you find this place, and why are we here?”
I swallowed. “We… seek to save the Realms, warrior. Enter. Carry the torches forward while I keep my hands free.”
A smirking Toushek entered the empty prison with me as the soldiers spread out, illuminating the scorched walls and fine dust and ash making the stone floor oddly soft. There was a large main chamber with living spaces and shelves gouged into the walls. The rock went deeper, closing in and leading to a tunnel which was barred by an iron gate.
“General!” my men cried in unison.
We froze in place, even Toushek to my left, to see a small woman’s skeleton wearing a pale, lace dress. She sat with knees up, skeletal hands draped elegantly off the caps. Her back pressed to the gate; she blocked the way.
As if able to hear us, the skull lifted as silent and smooth as if it had flesh and muscle, though empty eye sockets peered at us. The death grin parted, and an eerie whisper escaped.
“Leave, now. This grave is under my protection.”
A few men soiled their armor where they stood.
Toushek stepped forward. “The Sorcerer-General needs something here, law keeper. We shall not be long.”
“Time matters not. I do not keep law if I bend it for you, deal broker.”
“Trade, then. What do you want?”
Unmoved, the skull twisted upon her neck. “Nothing. You shall not defile and rob from the grave of your kin, by your own hand or that of a puppet.”
The Davrin bua snarled, “Obstinate fool! I am not defiling. We brought a Deathwalker to perform the correct rites.”
We had?
On this, I waved Oskar closer, but the ugly death mage didn’t notice while he gazed at the skeleton woman. Then, spotting me, he approached. “General?”
“Can you hear her?” I demanded.
“Yes, sir,” he said calmly, his eyes sliding toward the iron gate, “but I do not understand. I see her, but she does not speak the dead tongue. I do not think she is dead.”
What? How could that be?
Her jaw flapped without tongue or lips. “Your ears should bleed to understand me, deathless one, were it not for the ‘dalliance’ which gave you your heart’s desire. Now, the appetite only grows and grows, and the motive no longer matters. I told you so. We always tell you, and no one seems to listen.”
“Until you make them,” the merchant quipped, his tone snide. “Thus, they never learn as you decide for them.”
The skeleton sat in silence, guarding her post, as we weighed the cost of attempting to pick her up and move her to one side. A few moments later, a deep rumble passed through the red stone, shifting grit loose into our heads.
“What are you doing, law keeper?” Toushek demanded, lifting his golden shield above his head like it might keep the ceiling from coming down upon him.
The skull turned to trail the ceiling as if she had eyes. “I do nothing, deal broker. There is another who may be called to action if you disturb this grave.”
&
nbsp; “That is what we want.”
“Is it?”
I was already tired of their bickering, reminded too strongly of my decades at Nalara. The rumbling began again, the ground shook, and my men were afraid, barely holding their places.
Oskar pointed into the darkness behind the bones before the bars. He didn’t have a chance to speak when a set of enormous eyes opened, metallic gold and floating in darkness. It wasn’t the bua’s eyes. These were enraged, maddened; its stare pierced us as a blast of hot air and sand erupted from the tunnel behind the gate.
*ENOUGH.*
The ceiling cracked, then the ground beside the skeleton. She scrambled toward a wide-eyed Toushek and hid behind his shield. Outside, the wind howled as a sudden sandstorm arrived.
*If a mere five turns are all that is to be granted before thieves seek to rob from me, then the Desert will claim these men as new guards instead! You are not welcome here again! Get out!*
“General!”
“Run!!”
The cave collapsed in pieces. The fissure was filling with sand as the windstorm battered at the cliffs.
Only the Deathwalker and I made it out.
Toushek and the woman’s skeleton had fled, taking the shield with them.
“Augh!”
I catapulted upright, ripped the cord from my neck hard enough to burn my skin, and pitched the ruby at the wall.
The Dragonchild ducked as the gem narrowly missed him, first clacking above his head then thudding into the dirt beside him. We stared at each other in heavy shadow, only a thin line of Sun leaking in at the bottom of the door cover. The cave filled with the sound of gasping and my racing heart.
“Still mine,” I said, expecting some dry remark, at least a raised eyebrow to comment on my volatile behavior. I didn’t care for one fuck what he thought about it.
Mourn snaked his tongue out at the red pendant then used the tip of his tail to flick it in my direction. It was a good shot; I wasn’t required to lean far to reclaim what I’d thrown. He wasn’t smirking and said not a word about trading gems again.
The fighting mage wore his harness, bracers, and loose, black bottoms, but I didn’t see where he’d placed his massive double blades. His hood was down, his long, tapered ears exposed, and his black hair was longer than I realized but bound up in a short, thick loop at his nape. Something pale and sharp poked up through that hair, closer to his brow. Horns?